


manta rays

by jaythewriter



Category: Marble Hornets
Genre: Gen, Optimistic Pessimism, revival, unedited and unbeta'd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-22
Updated: 2016-09-22
Packaged: 2018-08-16 16:52:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8110120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaythewriter/pseuds/jaythewriter
Summary: "i see with new eyes"





	

**Author's Note:**

> You think I can’t make a fic based off of one simple tweet? Fucking think again 
> 
> This is very rough, unedited, just me pushing some first thoughts out and hoping they make some sense and yet none at all, honestly. It’s just. Jay reawakening. 
> 
> There’s maybe a hint of Jaylex. Well no it’s more than a hint. Maybe half a cup.

blue eyes open for the first time in years

there is no sleep to wipe from the corners, no dizziness to accompany the wooly weight set inside of his skull, no gravity pulling him back down into the cold, cold ground for a useless second round

his brain knows, he should be thirsty, hungry, needy, he should need hundreds of things right now-- especially a doctor.

to be without veins is a very distinct sensation, though. he never knew that it was a constant, so constant he never noticed, it is a rush beneath the flesh that the brain blocks out so he does not go mad at the feeling of living. 

there is no blood.

there is no stomach or throat to shove cheap fried food down, and he is relieved. he can save money now without having to think about food; except, he might as well have already been doing that. he cannot remember the last time he forced a meal down his dry and tired mouth.

if he could find where he dropped his voice, he might laugh at himself. is he really worrying about money now? when he is become lazarus, rising from what must have been death’s arms spooning his cold bloody body? 

he may not have veins any more but he still has anxiety about Every Last Thing.

he would laugh again, and maybe cry, if he knew exactly where his eyes were. 

he does have eyes, and they see better than they ever did. toward the end, he would squint at the trees that harassed him from afar, and he would know, he needs to get glasses. 

now, /now/, he sees leaves outside a crumbling window, rubble and glass, he sees the very veins of the leaves, dark and heavy from the rain. insects struggle up the tree trunks, burrowing inside for shelter from the elements. they gleam under the faint light of a sun pushing past the clouds above. 

if he looks past the leaves, the treetops, the dying grass all around, he can see into the heavens, and there lie the millions of stars, planets, an incomprehensible amount, and he knows nothing matters, truly nothing matters when there is such chaos above the tiny insignificant earth.

and he finally can relax. 

the thought that it was not for nothing, when there is nothing to be doing it for, he can relax and let out the strain in his bones, or what passes for bones now. if there is nothing out there, he cannot have truly failed, there was nothing to fail in the first place.

he needs to tell somebody. 

two people immediately come to mind-- and one of them must be absolutely furious with him for all the trouble he caused when he was a living human creature, so maybe not him. it seems best to let him be, everything will be fine without him butting in. again.

the other, he can sense him, he is still here. why he would be, he has no idea, but it is a miracle, a blessing in disguise. 

what heaviness that remains is a guilt that words could never be exchanged beyond a quiet call of an old name, applied to a shell that could not possibly hold the right to the name any longer. many things could have been said: an apology, a demand for explanation.

a plea for understanding.

the movement of this form is fluid and simple. energy is no longer a requirement. he thinks of movement, and he moves. no legs, no arms, no thudding heart holding him back. he cannot cough anymore, his lungs have disintegrated and in their place lays a shapeless nothing. 

within a time that is so small, it is incomprehensible to man, he is where He is.

the floor is painted red, footsteps imprinted in the blood lost. no body.

but the lingering presence of the other is thick and stifling, like an embrace

the touch of a confused, lost, scared friend

clinging for answers

and the answer he gives is that there is nothing, and that there is nothing to forgive.

the blood lost drips into an empty grave, meaningless, as life transitions into death into undeath into Simple Being

and they curl around each other, comforted, knowing it must be okay now. if there is nothing, then everything is fine.

they have many hours, many days to talk about what has happened

but for now they are quiet, two creatures each wrapped around the other without a sound.


End file.
